


Seldom All They Seem

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, M/M, dream reality, nothing is real!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to miss something you never really had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seldom All They Seem

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: [Diana](http://i41.tinypic.com/2nlqf9.jpg) is Roger's older sister. [Alexia and Ilham](http://i667.photobucket.com/albums/vv35/mimsieseyes/stanisadorable/SplodefromStan/alexia_ilham_stan.png) are Stan's daughter and [estranged wife](http://sports.rightpundits.com/?p=5784). [Dimitri Zavialoff](http://www.24heures.ch/files/imagecache/468x312/story/18_2-131522_3ae945f9.jpg) coached Stan for 17 years until last summer when Stan started working with [Peter Lundgren](http://thetennistimes.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/peter-lundgren.jpg) instead.

 

He falls asleep to the sound of his own breathing and wakes with the sun in his eyes. Blinded for a moment, he turns his head the other way. Bumps his nose against a bare shoulder. Roger's skin smells of vanilla and darker: dusky sweet like sandalwood or coffee beans. He breathes it in, sighs into the linen morning stillness.

Roger stirs beside him. Frowns when he opens his eyes, squinting against the sunlight. Wrinkles deepen the lines of his face, his hair is a mess of tousled curls, and Stan thinks he's never looked more beautiful than now, in moments like this, crumple-faced and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Then the recognition, his gaze coming to rest on Stan, the slow happiness that smooths the corners of his lips. The raspy drowsiness in his voice when he murmurs, "Hey you," and moves his hand so that their fingers, tangential, now lie intertwined. 

Stan kisses him. It's a beautiful morning in Paris. They're in no rush. Roger's interview is over, went well, and now there is nothing to do but enjoy the rest of their trip and each other. It hadn't been either of their ideas, originally; Diana had booked the extra days, the hotel suite, when she found out that her baby brother was finally moving up in the world, that he and his multilingual self had been called to Paris for a job interview, and that the degree in Comparative Literature was actually proving to be useful, for once. 

_Take Stan with you, Roger. Go on,_ she'd said. _Take a few extra days and enjoy yourself. You deserve it. Consider it an early engagement present from me._ And though her tone was teasing, the light in her eyes had made Stan drop his gaze, pulse fluttering close to his skin. That same feeling tightens in his chest now as Roger rubs his thumb over Stan's lower lip, an unspeakable something written in his smile. And Stan wonders, fleetingly, how this can possibly be true. It's too perfect.

He thinks no more of it until breakfast. Searching the kitchenette for a mug so that Roger can have his coffee, Stan pulls open a drawer and catches himself expecting to find a baby spoon. Curved handle and flower print, a small "A" etched in pink. The image is sharp in his mind, and it makes him pause. Think. The moment stretches, fragile as hope.

Dimly he can hear the water running in the bathroom, Roger taking a shower, like he does every morning, the way it's been for as long as Stan can remember, because it's always been just he and Roger, together—

Except that's not true, because he has Alexia, he has Ilham and the weight of everything he owes them. He has Peter and sponsors and even Roger, once in a while. A friendly chat, a text or two. But mostly he has a life of tennis, so different from this dream reality—and that's all this is.

The realization sits cold in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't wake, but he knows which memories are false. He knows he never told his parents, never ran away from home. Never worked at a café in Geneva where he met a dark-eyed graduate student who would turn out to be the love of his life. His Roger. At twenty-five, Stan is not assistant chef at Dimitri's restaurant, and Roger is not a translator interviewing for a job at UNESCO, bringing Stan along with him for a three-day vacation that neither of them can really afford right now, but at least they're happy, at least they have each other.

So he knows all that this is not. _They_ are not. He closes the drawer carefully and pours coffee into a teacup just as Roger steps out from the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his hips and steam dewing in his hair. Roger pecks the corner of his mouth as he walks by, and Stan grabs him by the elbow, holding him in place for a proper kiss. Roger tastes like toothpaste. Later he will taste like coffee, then butter, then the jam on Stan's toast. 

After the fifth time Roger laughs into Stan's neck, slightly breathless, "Not that I'm complaining, but did I miss my cue or something?"

And Stan just closes his eyes, lips pressed against Roger's curls. Says nothing for long moments. Waiting. Roger's arms loop around his waist, solid and _real_ , and bit by bit the sorrow slips from him like so many drops of rain. He lets the memories go, willing himself to believe.

Stan glances at the clock. Says, "We should probably figure out what we're doing today," skimming his hands down Roger's sides. No intent, just enough to tickle. Roger twitches and makes a comical face as he pulls away. Stan laughs, and Roger drops one last kiss on the corner of his mouth.

What's left of the morning is spent studying the abundance of brochures in the hotel lobby. A green and orange insignia catches Stan's eye, and Roger says, "The French Open is this week, isn't it? Want to go?" Stan shrugs. Why not. Roger calls a cab. 

As the city slips by his window, Stan tries to convince himself that it wouldn't be so bad, that it would be nice, even, if Roger gets this job. It's what he wants. It's a great opportunity. Besides, it's past time Stan moved on. He can't work for Dimitri forever. He wants more out of life than this. And he doesn't want to think of why he should be sad, not while he still has Roger — who looks bemused but not displeased when Stan shifts closer, lays his head on Roger's shoulder and stays that way for the rest of the drive.

They get tickets to Lenglen, and Roger chatters away about the day's matches, the players, the rivalries. Because Roger loves tennis. Stan quashes a yearning made hollow by comparison. He listens to Roger talk about style and mental game, reminisce with a certain wistful look about when he used to captain his school's tennis team. 

"Do you miss it?" Stan blurts out. "Playing tennis."

Roger shrugs. "A little. I think I could've been pretty good, but I never actually thought about going pro. Because I chose other things, you know? It's hard to miss something you never really had."

 _Not true,_ Stan thinks. He rests cautious fingers on Roger's knee, watches as Roger's hand comes to cover his own. Natural as heartbreak. He wonders if he would have chosen other things, had he been given the same chance.

The sounds of the match drown out his thoughts as play gets underway. The snap of racquet strings, puffs of red dust, the noise of the crowd rolling up like waves, breaking with each break of serve, each stunning play. Then the scoreboard lights up with the next match: Tsonga vs. Tipsarevic. Stan has just enough time to feel vaguely surprised they didn't put Jo on Chatrier before something like vertigo twists in his gut. He draws a sharp breath. Forces it down.

Roger's hand is light on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Stan shakes his head. "Yeah. Yeah. I don't. Something came over me." Something that's making his feet tap restlessly against the ground. His fingers itching for the feel of yellow fuzz and blue griptape. "I'm fine," he lies.

Roger doesn't seem convinced. "Are you getting sunstroke? You look a little crisped." He taps Stan's nose, and Stan makes a face at him. It's sunny, but not _that_ sunny out. Roger smiles then, half-amused, half-apologetic. All affection.

They return to the city as daylight fades. The hotel isn't far from the restaurant where they have dinner, so Roger suggests that they walk back, taking their time. Stan refrains from calling Roger out for being an unrepentant romantic; he doesn't have any right to, honestly. The neighborhood is quiet, but the streets are well-lit. Stan glances at the architecture of the buildings they pass, following the line of rooftops up, up to the darkening sky. A church bell tones softly in the distance. For what, he doesn't know. He feels Roger's hand slip into his.

"It's strange," Roger begins conversationally. "I'm not a very religious person at all, but sometimes I do feel like I could believe in God. You know?"

Roger's hand is warm. "And when's that?" Stan asks, lacing their fingers together.

"When I'm with you," comes the reply. Easy, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

Stan feels his throat tighten. Hates himself for always wanting what he can't have, for imagining all he might have had and had to lose. His steps slow, and Roger comes to a stop to meet him halfway. A hand on his cheek, the other still intertwined with his. The night is dim blue, punctured by lights. 

"What's wrong?" Roger asks.

"You mean it?"

Roger looks bewildered for a moment. Then, "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

 _Because you don't,_ Stan wants to tell him, memories escaping like moths from covered jars. _You never did, or I wouldn't still be like this, wishing this were real._ Except that's not fair to Roger. Roger, who hasn't done anything but carry on with his life. Roger, who has been nothing but kind to him. And this Roger, who's now looking down at their feet and pursing his lips in the way that means he's searching for the right words, a particular turn of phrase.

"So I've been thinking," Roger says. His thumb rubs absently over Stan's knuckles, back and forth. Back and forth. "And feel free to tell me it's a stupid idea, because I know it is. But I've been thinking, if I get this job. Will you come to Paris? With me?"

His voice is unsteady, but when he looks up his expression is open. Hopeful. Distressingly earnest. And it's not so much a stupid idea as it is a selfish one, but Stan can't bring himself to shape that thought into speech. Not when he already knows what his own answer is, knew it from the moment his heart made a traitorous leap.

He closes the last few inches between them and kisses Roger. Really kisses him, even though they're in public, even though this is probably the worst idea he's had in a very long time, but fuck it. Roger tastes like dinner mints, and Stan knows now that a vision of ever-after cuts more deeply than reality ever could. 

All too soon, Roger pulls away. "So…can I take that as a 'yes'?"

Stan brushes a wayward curl from Roger's eyes, tucks it behind his ear. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

That night, he lies in bed and watches Roger's sleeping face, listens to the sound of his breathing. Whispers three words into the stillness and wakes alone with their echo still on his tongue. Because this much, at least, has always been true. This is real, and this is why it hurts — even though he never ran away from home, never cooked meals for two in a little apartment above a coffee shop, never kissed Roger on a blue Parisian night and never found his perfect ending, always dreaming of more.


End file.
